


Home Is Anywhere You Are

by AlwaysRain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe, Fae & Fairies, Fairy!Castiel, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Teen Sam Winchester, The angels are fairies, Winged Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 05:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6039886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysRain/pseuds/AlwaysRain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary died, John took the boys on the road. If something reminded him of her, they packed their things and moved on. Dean and Sam never had a home. But when he's twenty-one, Dean gets the chance to make himself a home. He never thought that would mean dealing with creatures that aren't supposed to be real.<br/>Castiel grew up in a happy home, surrounded by his tribe. His home was beautiful and full of nature and never once did he think it would involve humans. But after an incident which leaves him stranded in the human house by his Tribal Tree, he finds he must learn to live with humans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Illusions

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so this is an AU that I came up with because I had an outdoor lab class and one of my professors said that she always thought of acorn caps as fairy hats. It inspired the mental image of tiny little Castiel wearing an acorn cap as a hat, and I started planning this AU. I'm not sure how long the story will end up being, but I hope you enjoy it! Also, a huge thank you to Monica (mistyslayer.tumblr) and Jared (scorcherman13.tumblr.com) for helping me out with proof-reading and planning. I love you guys!

The white house, for nearly twenty years of abandonment, looks well. It’s dirty, of course, but it isn’t falling apart. The grass, though deep, has obviously been mown at least once in the past year. The lilac bushes look well-cared for as well. And, as Dean stares up at the house, plastic grocery bags in hand, duffel thrown over his shoulder, he feels fear settle into the pit of his stomach. Because, of all the things he’s done in his life, coming here was the hardest. He considers turning back now, while he still can, before he makes this any worse for himself. But then he remembers the fight, remembers why he came here in the first place.  
  
_“So he got it from you. You taught your little brother to be an ungrateful bastard.”_  
  
_“You’re the one who was always pushing him to do what you wanted! Didn’t you ever stop to think about what he might want?”_  
  
_And Dean can’t believe he’s doing this, can’t believe he’s saying it. He isn’t supposed to talk back to John, he’s supposed to keep Sam from getting himself killed._  
  
_“He’s seventeen, he doesn’t know what he wants!”_  
  
_“He wants a home!”_  
  
_“He has a home.”_  
  
_“You call this a home?” Dean gestures to the motel room, half-destroyed around them from the earlier fight. Sam’s things are gone, now, and Dean doubts he’ll ever see them again. “We live out of the car, Dad, we haven’t had a home since Mom died and you dragged us away.”_  
  
_“Don’t you talk about her.”_  
  
_“Why not? You know she never would have kicked Sam out!”_  
  
_“He was leaving anyway. If he’s going to leave this family, he doesn’t deserve to come back.”_  
  
_“Come back to where?!” Dean practically screams it. He doesn’t care what happens to him, not anymore. “You’ll be out of here before the night is through and he won’t be able to find you!”_  
  
_“Good. He walked away. He can stay away.” John turns away from Dean and begins tossing things into a bag._  
  
_“How can you say that about your own child? Thanks to you, he doesn’t have anywhere to go. We have no safe place to run to when you ditch us.”_  
  
_John doesn’t reply to that, doesn’t raise his voice like Dean thought he might. He just walks over to the table, picks up Dean’s cell phone, and drops it into the bag he’s packing. Once Dean hasn’t spoken for a few minutes, he mumbles something under his breath._  
  
_“What did you say?”_  
  
_“I said you and your brother could go to Lawrence.”_  
  
_“That house isn’t even ours anymore.”_  
  
_“I never sold it, Dean. How could I, when your mother passed away there? Maybe I can’t live there, and maybe I didn’t want you boys to have to live in a place like that, but I couldn’t sell it.”_  
  
_Dean stands frozen in place, unable to do anything but stare at John as he packs. “You told me you did. You… you said it was sold. You said we couldn’t go back.” John doesn’t respond. Realization crosses Dean’s face and is quickly followed by anger. “You lied to us! You drove across the country for seventeen years when we had somewhere we could have given Sam a good life? You left us for weeks on end in dirty motel rooms and let us starve when we had a house?”_  
  
_John zips his bag shut and gives Dean a withering look. “If you hate it so much, you can go after your brother. I’m leaving.”_  
  
Dean walks slowly up the front path, remembers how the door slammed after that, and how the sound of the impala driving away stung more than any slap he’d ever received. He steps onto the porch stairs, remembers picking up his duffel bag. There was thirty dollars in his wallet and two changes of clothes. John had taken everything else. The porch creaks beneath his boots, he remembers walking out of the motel room into the night and realizing he was alone. He reaches for the door handle, then stops, realizing it will be locked. And for the first time in his life, he is completely and totally alone.  
  
_Mary sets the cloth bag down, walks to the end of the porch, and pulls lightly on the second-to-last rung of the railing. A panel pops open. She pulls out a key. When she turns around, she smiles and presses a finger to her lips._  
  
_“Don’t tell anyone where Mommy hides the spare key, okay Dean?”_  
  
Dean lowers his hand and stares at the door. He looks to his right. The second-to-last support beam…. He walks over to kneel next to hit and feels for the ridge. He pulls on it, but it doesn’t move. He tugs a few more times before the hidden latch releases, rusty with age, and a key clatters out. Dean picks it up, closes the panel, and goes to unlock the front door. It creaks as it swings open.  
  
A wall of stale air hits him in the face. It’s dark inside. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. Dean takes one step inside and has to fight the urge to run right back out. To run, screaming, all the way back to that motel in Colorado two weeks ago. He forces himself forward another step. Again. Again. Again. Until he can close the door behind him. Then he turns the latch, drops his bags, and stumbles a few feet to the stairs. He collapses on the bottom step, ignoring the cloud of dust that wafts up around him.  
  
He’s breathing heavily, trying to stop shaking. He wants to puke. Why did he do this? He had sworn over and over again never to come back here. To come home. But it isn’t really home, is it? Not after so long. Not after seventeen years of raising Sammy on the road. Because a house is not a home. Especially not this one. Dean’s life is an eternal chase- one in which he never catches up to what he wants. He has no home, no place where he belongs.  
  
This place was just an illusion.  
  
He stays seated on the stairs until the sun sets and the house goes dark. That night, he sleeps on the floor next to the front door. He uses his duffel bag as a pillow and his jacket as a blanket. Most of the night is actually spent staring into the dark and trying not to think about his family. It isn’t until the wee hours of the morning that he falls into a restless sleep. And then, only because he can’t keep his eyes open any longer.

  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  


Castiel is a soldier, but most days he takes a book to his favorite spot and reads. The top of the tree is dangerous, he knows this, but he also knows he can fly faster than anything that wants to hunt him. His cap sits next to his spear on the branch beside him, and he holds his book above him when he lays down. Sometimes the breeze rustles through the leaves and his branch will sway gently. That’s when he closes his eyes and feels at peace. He hears a swallow trill and turns his head toward the sound. Leaves block his view, so he places his book with his helmet and weapon and propels himself into the air.  
  
He spirals upward, relishing the feeling of the wind through his hair and the sun on his face. He comes to a stop far above the Tribal Tree and turns his gaze to the old white house. The swallow is perched on the edge of the roof, close to where an old wooden wind chime hangs. A small smile graces Castiel’s face as he remembers standing in the same place and peering over the edge of the roof.  
  
_The woman curls herself around her son, pressing kiss after kiss into his hair. He’s giggling and squirming, looking around him for something he can’t see. The woman holds him close and shushes him gently._  
  
_“Quiet, baby, hold still. They’re shy. That’s why we left them so many presents.”_  
  
_“Momma, the leaves are gone. Are they gonna be okay?”_  
  
_“Of course, sweetheart. Do you remember the soft acorn caps we found at the park with Sammy? Those will keep their ears warm.”_  
  
_“Can Sammy see them, too?”_  
  
_The woman smooths down his hair and presses one last kiss to his head. She starts rocking back and forth slowly, smiling as she looks across the backyard to the overlarge willow tree. “If he believes, he can. But he’ll have to earn their trust just like we did. Now let’s be quiet so they aren’t nervous.”_  
  
_The boy leans back against his mother’s chest, and as the sun sets, his eyes slip closed. His cheeks grow rosy as the temperature drops. The woman begins to hum, at peace with the night. Castiel waits until he’s sure the boy must be sleeping, then flies down slowly and cautiously. The woman catches sight of him and he almost flies away, but then she smiles, so he tentatively smiles back and glides toward her. There is goodness in her eyes._  
  
_She doesn’t say anything, just extends her hand toward him and continues humming. He hovers for a full minute before he decides to trust her completely, and he lands on her hand. It’s trembling slightly, but she’s obviously trying to keep still. He places his own tiny hand on her thumb. Wonder crosses her face. He opens his mouth to speak to her, but then the child stirs. He stumbles backward, startled._  
  
_“Look, Dean,” she whispers, her voice reverent._  
  
_Green eyes blink open and focus on Castiel. He wobbles as he reaches the end of her fingertips and nearly falls off. The child frightens him- he’s barely a child himself, and he shouldn’t be out near the humans- so he leaps off the woman’s hand and flies as quickly as he can to the Tribal Tree. He doesn’t look back until he’s safely hidden by branches on the tree._  
  
_Later that night, the human house catches fire. Castiel breaks the rules yet again and flies towards the house, desperate to help. It’s far too dangerous, far too hot. He hears screams within the house and tries to find a way in. Instead, he nearly flies into the little boy, who is holding his baby brother. But their father runs out of the house, so Castiel hides._  
  
_Soon, there are many humans surrounding the house and putting out the fire. Castiel stays behind the small lilac bush and watches the young boy shiver. The humans in dirty yellow clothing bring out a body on some sort of board. The father leaves his children and goes to speak with the adult humans. But the baby is crying and the little boy seems too frightened to react to it. Castiel flies over, knowing he’ll be seen, and lands on the boy’s knee. He places a hand on the baby’s cheek, closes his eyes, and concentrates. The baby slowly stops crying and falls asleep. Castiel opens his eyes to see the older boy staring at him with eyes identical to his mother’s._  
  
Castiel’s smile falters as he recalls that night. The death of Mary Winchester had caused great concern amongst the Tribe. She was a human with a kind soul, and she was gentle with every living thing. For a short time after she died, Castiel wondered if her son might grow up to be the same. But then the family left, and Castiel grew older. He began training with the military, and all thoughts of the human were pushed from his mind.  
  
The distant sound of a horn draws Castiel from his memories. He returns to his branch to retrieve his book and equipment, then speeds off to report for duty. In all manners, it’s a normal day, a day just the same as all days have been for seventeen years. What he can’t know is that, as he goes through the motions, the human boy has returned. He can’t know that what he considers his home now involves a human from the past.


	2. Crumbling

When Dean wakes to sunlight streaming in the boards over the window, dancing off dust motes, the first think he things is that he’s very glad he called ahead to have to electricity, plumbing, and phone lines turned on. Because he has to pee. He’s surprised that he remembers where the bathroom is, but perhaps it’s instinct. Or the fact that the door is right next to the stairs.  
  
Once he emerges, he decides that the first thing he needs to do is eat. So he pulls a package of poptarts from one of the grocery bags and munches on it while he surveys the living room. Though the house is in good condition, it’s still going to be a lot of trouble to clean it and make it livable again. So he digs out the hammer he bought at the hardware store, trying hard not to think about when John had taught him how to use one, and he begins removing boards from windows as carefully as possible. Within an hour or so, light is coming freely through the windows on the first floor of the house. He rewards himself with another poptart and a quick swig of whiskey- he’d needed something to get himself through this- and begins opening windows. The fresh air is like a breath of new life into the house. It suddenly seems less foreboding, less panic-inducing, more like the place he remembers.  
  
He starts opening cabinets in the kitchen, hoping he won’t come across any dead mice or forgotten food. Thankfully, he doesn’t. But when he turns the faucet on the sink, the water runs black for a few minutes, just like it had in the bathroom. Ah, the joys of renovation. The fridge, oddly enough, seems to be working just fine, and is mostly clean.  
  
The silence starts to become overwhelming as he makes his way through the lower level of the house, even with the occasional sound of a door creaking when he opens it. He needs this, he tells himself, needs the time alone. He’s never been on his own before. It’s nice, quiet, free, and…. Lonely. Everything feels too empty, too foreign. Dean has tried so hard to find a place for himself, and buried deep inside himself where he dares not look, he had hoped it would be here. And yet, this house is just as disconcerting as the thousands of motel rooms.  
  
Dean decides to sweep before venturing upstairs, where he’s sure he’ll find things he doesn’t yet have the strength to see. It doesn’t take long before he’s amassed a large pile of dirt in the middle of the living room, and only then does he realize that it’s long past lunch time. Instead of eating, he washes his worries down with whiskey. In the next several hours, he thinks many times that coming here was a terrible idea, but he keeps cleaning until the bottom of the house is as clean as its going to get with his limited supplies. He sits back on the stairs and watches the door, debating if he should ask for help or not. Finally, the desire to sleep somewhere that isn’t a floor or a park bench wins out, and he digs out a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket. He studies the phone number it holds, thinking about the woman who had given it to him.  
  
_“Can’t a guy get some food in this town?”_  
  
_Dean shouts it at the building he’s just been ejected from, and winces at the fresh scrapes on his hands and knees. He mutters curses under his breath as he moves to sit on the curb, burying his face in his hands. Almost immediately, he pulls away again, grumbling about the stinging in his palms. He briefly considers tearing cloth from his shirt to wrap his hands with, then decides it isn’t worth it._  
  
_“I hope you like almonds,” a voice says, and Dean looks up to see an older woman holding a chocolate bar out to him. He watches her, confused, until she waves it around. “Come on, then, take it. I haven’t got all day, I just stopped to fill up the gas tank.” Dean reaches up slowly and takes the candy, still very obviously confused. The woman smiles kindly. “There you go. I have better snacks and some bandages in my car, I can help with those scrapes and you can get some real food in you.” She starts to walk away, then looks back at him. “Well come on, boy, I’ve already told you I don’t have all day.”_  
  
_He blinks, taken aback. “I… I’m sorry, do I know you?”_  
  
_“Well, no,” she says, finally looking light she’s stopping to think about what she’s doing. “But I know you. I haven’t quite figured out where from, but I will. I’ll just shake your hand.”_  
  
_She smiles knowingly. Dean stands and brushes himself off delicately, slowly walking towards her. “Who are you, exactly?”_  
  
_“Oh, that’s right. I knew I was forgetting something important.” The woman holds out her hand, which Dean shakes warily. “I’m Missouri Moseley. You can call me Missouri. And you’re Dean Winchester.”_  
  
_Dean jerks his hand out of her grasp and steps back as through he’s been burned. “Who the hell are you?”_  
  
_Missouri frowns at him. “Don’t you cuss at me, Dean. I’ve told you who I am, so I’m guessing what you actually mean is how I know who you are. And if you must know, I did tell you that I only needed to shake your hand, which I have done, and because I’m a psychic, I now know why I know you. You’re from Lawrence, which is exactly where I’m headed home to. If I’m not mistaken- and I rarely am- you’re Mary Winchester’s son, the older one. You were a funny kid. It’s a good think you’ve returned.”_  
  
_Dean’s mouth works soundlessly and Missouri laughs. “Come on then, we’ve got a long drive ahead of us. What? You can’t possibly expect me to let you walk all the way home. Your momma was a good woman, she was my friend. I won’t let her boy get left behind.”_  
  
After that incredibly strange conversation, Dean had spent three hours in a car with her. When they reached Lawrence, she drove him through town so he knew how to get to his house, then dropped him downtown near the stores and directed him to call her if he ever needed help with anything. She’d given him her phone number, a pat on the cheek, and two hundred dollars for food and supplies.  
  
Now, he hurriedly stashes the liquor bottle in the kitchen cabinets so she won’t find it when she arrives, looks around the house for anything she might disapprove of, and gives himself a mental pat on the back when he finds nothing. It isn’t long before he hears her knock, and he immediately goes to open the door.  
  
“Well it took a bit of searching, but I found it eventually and brought it- why do I smell alcohol on you?” Dean’s eyes widen. Yet again, before he can respond, Missouri frowns at him and continues speaking. “The steam cleaner you wanted me to find for you is in the trunk, along with some proper food. I figured you would try to make out with the cheapest things you could buy, but quantity is not always better than quality. You go get your dinner and that cleaner and I’ll take a look around the house. I haven’t been here in many years.”  
  
Dean doesn’t move. He’s honestly still trying to process all of what she’s just said, but then she raises her eyebrows at him and gestures to the door. He ducks his head, mutters a ‘yes, ma’am’, and hurries out to the driveway. He can’t figure out what it is, but something about Missouri makes him feel like he can trust her. She’s a total stranger, but she says often she knows his family, and she seems so familiar. When she’s around, he feels just a little bit safer, a little less lonely. He almost wishes he could go live with her instead of restoring his childhood house.  
  
After a good bit of work, he’s manages to lug the steam cleaner up the porch steps and into the living room. He straightens up and turns to ask Missouri a question, sure that he’d seen her moving around the living room just moments earlier. The psychic is nowhere in sight. Dean frowns slightly and sets the container of lasagna he’d found next to the steam cleaner. He slowly walks into the kitchen, calling her name.  
  
“Missouri? I… found the cleaner. And the food, too, thank you… Missouri?”  
  
“I’m here!”  
  
The response is quiet and a bit muffled, and the glass double door opens as Missouri steps back inside, looking quite pleased with herself. She walks over to Dean and pats his cheek fondly. “I was right. It’s good that you’ve come back. They don’t realize it yet, but they need you.”  
  
She nods toward the doors she’s just come through. Dean is confused until he remembers that they open into the backyard. Which actually confuses him even more. Missouri has started walking through the house toward the front door, and once Dean realizes that she’s leaving, he hurries after, stricken with sudden panic.  
  
“You- you’re leaving? Already? But… what about dinner? You brought more than enough food.”  
  
“Eat some for breakfast, then, you’ll need the strength. Besides, I’ve been here too long already. This is your story, not mine. Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I’ll come over in the morning to help you clean.” She starts out the door, but pauses before she’s left. “Oh, and steam one of the beds while you’re at it. I’d suggest your parent’s, as it’ll be the biggest. You can’t sleep on the floor forever, and I doubt the couch is any better.”  
  
And she’s gone while Dean is still registering her words. He sighs heavily. He can practically feel the silence closing in on him. Before dark thoughts can attack him, he grabs the container of lasagna and takes it to the fridge. He then returns to the steam cleaner, prepares it for use, and decides he’s going to clean everything he can. The loud noise of the machine keeps him from focusing on anything for too long as he cleans the couch, loveseat, and armchair in the living room. He moves to the kitchen and gets the rug by the back door and the cushions on each chair at the table.  
  
It feels good to aggressively clean things, almost like he’s removing all the bad from his life with each piece of furniture. So he takes the machine upstairs and pushes open the door that leads to John and Mary’s old bedroom. The floor is carpeted, and everything smells just a little musty. But he drags the cleaner in and gets to work. The repetitive motions calm him, keep him grounded. He cleans the quilt and pillows on the bed as well, resolving that tomorrow he will come to strip the bed and wash everything more thoroughly. Once he’s satisfied, he moves out of the master bedroom and down the hallway, then hesitates. He has a choice between his bedroom and Sam’s nursery. He’s already shaking, he knows it, but the nursery will not be how he remembers it, so he’d prefer to go there than into his old room.  
  
Unsurprisingly, the nursery is an empty room, restored after the fire and left untouched. Despite this, Dean still immediately feels like he needs to vomit. His chest feels tight. It’s hard to breathe. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and forces himself into the nursery. This is not the same, he tells himself, this is not where she died. That is long gone, something that was left in the past. He manages to clean the carpet, shaking the entire time, and then we walks unsteadily to the top of the stairs so he can sit down.  
  
Perhaps he had misjudged, and the nursery was actually the room he was dreading most. But he looks at the closed door of his childhood bedroom and his entire body goes cold. The nursery might be where Mary died, but his bedroom is where she lived. She would sit on the floor next to his bed and tell him stories. Sing him to sleep each night. Lay on the floor beside him and sketch beautiful renditions of fairies while he colored. Set Sam on the bed and let Dean help his brother learn to roll over, sit up, laugh, play peek-a-boo. She taught him how to read while sitting in a blanket fort beneath the window, using journals she’d filled with tales of tiny flying creatures that lived in the backyard. She kept the journals and sketchbooks on Dean’s bookshelf so he could look at them whenever he wanted to.  
  
So no, Dean resolves, no matter how terrible Sam’s nursery makes him feel, he will always choose it over his own bedroom. Unless some unknown curiosity forces him in there, that door is as good as locked. He stands, holding the banister for support as he makes his way back down the stairs. Along the way, he notices something he hadn’t seen before. Hanging in the stairwell is a picture of the entire family. They look so happy, so complete. John is holding Dean in one arm and has the other wrapped around Mary, who is holding a very young Sam. Sam is wearing a hat, and the leaves on the tree in the background are orange. It can’t have been taken more than a month before the fire.  
  
Dean nearly loses his footing. With just one photograph, Dean’s world comes crashing down around him. It occurs to him, for the first time, why he’s really here. It isn’t just because he has nowhere else to go, but because he is truly alone. His mother is dead, his brother left him, and his father doesn’t want him. He has no one left.  
  
At first, the burn of whiskey is how he justifies his tears. But when there’s less than half a bottle and he’s drank it all today, he knows it isn’t a good excuse. He stumbles out the back door, hoping the fresh air might clear his head of the fuzz of alcohol and unpleasant thoughts. When he sees the old willow glowing in the darkness, it’s easy to tell himself he’s imagining things. All the same, he starts wading his way through the grass that nearly reaches his knees. The glowing lights on the tree start blinking out, one by one, until they’ve all disappeared.  
  
“Hey,” Dean mutters, and rubs his eyes. “Come back. You-” he hiccups, grimaces, and motions his hand drunkenly at the tree. “You look like them things Sammy used to beg me to tell him stories about.” He makes a face like he’s trying to remember what he’s talking about. He could also be trying not to puke. “Fairies! They were fairies. Like Mom drew.”  
  
Now that he’s more slurring his words than talking, a few lights reappear. Dean keeps mumbling until the lights move away from the tree toward him. Then his eyes widen and his jaw drops. This, he knows, is not a drunken hallucination. One of the lights suddenly darts forward. Instinctively, Dean waves his hands around and somehow manages to swat it away from him. It falls through the air and disappears halfway to the ground. All of a sudden, the other three lights seem incredibly malevolent, so Dean turns and runs for the house, slamming the door and locking it behind him.  
  
He leans against the wall and groans, patting himself harshly on the face. “I did not just imagine fairies. I am drunk. This isn’t real.”  
  
But his palm still tingles with the feeling of hitting something out of there air, there was a solid something in the ball of floating light, and a memory makes its way out of the back of his mind. He had long ago convinced himself that it had been a dream, but now he’s almost certain that the tiny winged child who had comforted Sam on the night Mary died was real. And he’s going to have to get those journals.


	3. Falling

Early in the afternoon, Castiel is making is rounds through the Core, which is buzzing with daily life. He walks the soft wood of the connector bridges on each level, hardly giving the other fey any notice. No one is stealing anything, no one is hurt, no one is sick. So no one needs his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a few civilians watching him and whispering. He can feel his feathers start to raise in annoyance and wills the nagging feeling away. His fingers start to curl into fists.  
  
A blur of feathers and skin slams onto the market platform in front of Castiel, startling out of his invasive thoughts. His wings flare out, knees instinctively bent into take off position for a quick getaway. But then the pile of wings and limbs curses and pushes itself up onto its knees. The golden-winged faerie stands, brushes himself off, and ruffles his feathers as he turns to face Castiel, who sighs and relaxes some.  
  
“Gabriel. You’ve forgotten your shirt again.”  
  
Gabriel huffs at Castiel and rubs his elbow, which had broken his fall. He’s shirtless, and his pants are tied loosely around his waist, like he’d put them on in a hurry. His long hair is messy. Obviously, he’s been flying quickly, apparently searching for Castiel. That explains landing, actually, which was more of a crash than anything else- Gabriel still hasn’t mastered landing abruptly from high speeds, despite being several years older than Castiel. “I didn’t forget it. I chose not to wear it. It’s confining.”  
  
“If you don’t wear the proper uniform, you’ll lose your place in the military.”  
  
The older faerie lets out an exasperated groan and grabs Castiel’s face. “Cassie. It’s my day off. And not everyone is as into this whole soldier façade as you are. It’s not like we have anything to protect against. But nevermind that, you’re distracting me!”  
  
“Gabriel,” Castiel mumbles, reaching up to remove his brother’s hands from his cheeks. “I am on rounds. There is nothing I could possibly be doing that would distract you from your day off.”  
  
“Shhhhh…. Shush. Let me speak.” Castiel fixes Gabriel with his most bored expression. “Don’t look at me like that. Just hear me out. I saw a human in the house today- and I’m not imagining it this time. I swear. The windows are uncovered, and they’re open. Let’s go check it out.”  
  
“No. Stop drinking sap from the maple tree across the street.”  
  
“Castiel. Please. I know you don’t like the human house, but there really is someone there. You know that no one else will take me seriously on this, especially not Michael. I don’t think the civilians will notice until it’s too late. I need you to come with me and see if this human is dangerous.”  
  
Castiel sighs heavily. “Fine. After I get off duty tonight, I will come with you to prove that the human house is empty. Just like it has been since we were children. Just like it always will be.”  
  
Gabriel grins wickedly. “I promise you there’s something in that house, Cassie.”  
  
He steps back and extends his wings, preparing for flight. Castiel smirks. “You know, Gabriel, you should really work on your high-speed landings before you break your arm again.”  
  
Gabriel scowls at his baby brother. “Not all of us can fly like you, so hush.”  
  
Castiel’s lips twitch into an almost-smile as he watches Gabriel fly away. Annoying as he is, he’s family. The only family Castiel willingly admits he has. Castiel watches until he can no longer see his brother, then schools his expression and continues patrolling the marketplace. In the late evening, Castiel has moved from the Core to the upper levels of the Tribal Tree, and soon hears the military horn blowing. He frowns. It can’t be sunset already. A quick peek out onto a branch proves him wrong. He scuffs one booted foot on the floor. Now he’s going to have to deal with Gabriel again. Or…. Maybe not. If he can avoid all the places his brother might be, he can go home and relax. He walks to the edge of the level and peers down the trunk of the tree. The Core seems considerably quieter, especially from so far above.  
  
Castiel thinks for less than a minute before he sprints out the archway onto the branch. He runs as far along it as he can before it begins sloping toward the ground, and then launches himself into the air. He weaves himself between the drooping branches, the leaves that are larger than he is. The cooling air is calming. Shadows dance when his wings flutter the leaves. This time, when the sun falls asleep and the night comes alive, this is when Castiel feels truly free. He is alone, and the world is quiet around him. All the same, he soon decides he should get home before Gabriel has the smart idea to look for him out here. So he folds his wings close to his back and falls into a steep dive. His wings snap out to catch him when he nears the ground, and he glides gently to the base of the willow’s trunk.  
  
He walks up to one of the many places that the trunk forms a small archway above the ground and slips into the cleverly hidden tunnel. He hurries up the passageway and turns left the moment it opens into the actual trunk. Four turns and two root systems later, he’s brushing aside the leaf into his home. He sets his spear against the wall, pulls the dagger from his belt, and tosses both the weapon and his helmet onto the table. He ruffles his sweaty hair and splashes his face with water from the capillary that feeds into his home and all the others in the immediate vicinity. On the way to his bedroom, he pulls off his boots, leaving them laying on the floor in favor on collapsing face-first onto his bed. He isn’t there long before he hears Gabriel barge into the housing unit.  
  
“Castiel, don’t go thinking you can hide from me! You promised you would go with me.” Castiel groans into his lamb’s ear blanket the moment he hears his brother come in the room with him. “Get your ass out of bed, Cassie, this isn’t fair!”  
  
Gabriel tugs at Castiel’s ankles, so Castiel tries to kick him. Once Gabriel finally lets go of him, Castiel rolls over so he can give him the evil eye. “I haven’t even eaten yet,” he says, “and I just got off duty.”  
  
Gabriel doesn’t react to this. “Hurry up, let’s go, it’s getting dark out!”  
  
Castiel sighs heavily and stands, making sure to shake his wings in annoyance as he does so. “Fine. Make it quick.”  
  
He pads barefoot after his brother, not bothering to pick up any equipment as he passes the table. They move quietly through the tunnels, and Castiel notices that most of the housing units are silent. It isn’t unusual for a late summer night- many families take advantage of the stillness to let their children play. When they reach the end of the root system and emerge under the huge curtain of the Tribal Tree, Castiel leaps and flutters up to a reasonable height. He ignores Gabriel’s urging to follow him and instead turns his attention to the fey families flying together around them. Their Grace shines off their wings, heavenly in the safe haven of the Tribal Tree. Gabriel starts calling his name, but Castiel doesn’t listen.  
  
The trance is broken when the door on the human house slams and every faerie freezes in fear. Castiel darts over to Gabriel’s vantage point and feels his blood run cold at the sight. A human adult is stumbling through the grass in the general direction of the willow. The lights in the house behind it are on, and, as Gabriel said, the windows are open. Why, of all days, did he ignore Gabriel today?  
  
“Gabriel, get everyone to safety!”  
  
Castiel is gone before his brother can even think of replying, flying home at breakneck speed. The tunnels are packed with frightened fey, but Castiel shouts for them to move to the sides. He seizes his dagger and spear, shouting once again as he speeds back through the tunnels. He emerges to find the haven empty, save for three faeries who are keeping the flow of their Grace as dim as they can. He floats up to them, alarm bells still pounding in his head. It’s Gabriel, conversing in low tones with Anna and Inias about what to do with the human, who is talking at the tree.  
  
Castiel is the first to notice when the words dissolve into incoherent mumbles. He exchanges a glance with Gabriel, then looks to Anna. She makes a signal with her hands and nods once. The four faeries drift forward, gently moving through the heavy curtain of leaves. They aren’t focused on stealth now, so their Grace glows bright around them. The human’s face goes slack in shock. They seem to have frightened it. Good. Castiel takes the opportunity to attack, despite Gabriel’s yell of protest. The black-winged faerie rushes at the human, spear ready for war, and deftly swoops to avoid large, clumsy hands when they are raised in defense. If he can just get a little bit closer, he-  
  
He can’t breathe. The world is spinning. There’s fire eating the bones in his left wing. His right wing is flapping crazily, trying to stop the sudden mad descent. Somewhere in the sickening swirl of the fall, he sees the grass and knows that flight is a lost cause. He gives up and draws his right wing close to his body, sheer terror coursing through his veins when he can’t move the left one, then curls into a ball and hopes for the best. The ground is soft, but the impact still rattles through his entire body. He lies there, struggling to force air into his burning lungs, and the stars are drowned out by blackness.  
  
When Castiel blinks awake again, the first thing he notices is the cold. Even though the nights have been cool as of late, he has never felt so profoundly cold. He tries to summon a bit of Grace to warm up, but the effort brings to him his next revelation; the complete and utter pain in his wing. If it wasn’t broken when he fell, it surely is now. He slowly, so slowly, manages to stand. His wing hangs limply at his side. He tries to move it and finds he can’t, so he decides to pull it into place with his hands. The first tug makes his vision swim dangerously, his stomach lurch, and his head pound. Bad idea. He stops immediately, breathing heavily.  
  
Home. He needs to get home. He looks up, but the grass is too tall. He sees that the stars have moved since he fell. It is much later in the night now. But even looking up, he cannot see the Tribal Tree. Nor can he see the human house. The human! Anger, not fear, boils in Castiel’s blood. If it weren’t for that human, he wouldn’t be stuck down here. He yells in frustration and kicks the dirt. This is just perfect. He has no shoes, he’s wearing his lightweight uniform, which won’t provide much protection, and he has no protection aside from the dagger shoved into his belt, seeing as he dropped his spear during the fall and has no idea where to start looking for it. He starts off on foot, not bothering to try and figure out which direction he’s headed in. Either would be a good destination right now, seeing as one can help his wing and the other can help his anger.  
  
The tall grass is difficult to navigate, especially with his wing dragging behind him. He constantly has to stop and pull his wing free when it snags on the weeds. It doesn’t take long before his feathers, usually so carefully groomed, are caked with mud made from blood. The effort of traveling exhausts Castiel, and after just a few hours, he gives up and collapses. Lying on the ground, he wants to scream. His entire body hurts and he doesn’t know where he is or how far he’s come. Never in his life has he felt so helpless. It isn’t until he hears chittering that he remembers what Michael had told him as a fledgling, the same day that Gabriel had broken his arm for the first time. _If you ever find yourself unable to fly, call on the animals for assistance._ So Castiel draws in a deep breath, steels his nerves, and chatters in the general direction of the sound he’d heard.  
  
Almost immediately, the grass rustles violently. Moments later, a squirrel pops out and begins sniffing Castiel, who props himself up on his elbow and chatters again, weaker this time. The squirrel twitches its tail curiously, nudges Castiel, chitters, and lowers its head. Castiel wants to cry with happiness. He drags himself to his feet and stumbles over to the squirrel’s side so he can bury his hands in its fur and drag himself onto its back. It’s soft and warm and Castiel wonders momentarily if he’ll even be able to hold on. He squeaks a few times, then pauses so the squirrel can process what he’s said. It flicks its tail once more and bounds off through the grass. Castiel holds on desperately, wincing each time they hit the ground just a bit too hard. The squirrel leaps up onto the fence and runs along it until it can make a careful leap at the side of the house. They land on a windowsill. Castiel slides off the squirrel’s back and rubs its chin gratefully before sending it on its way.  
  
By the time he manages to create a rip in the window screen large enough to fold to the side and squeeze through, the sun has broken the horizon and streaked the sky with pink. Castiel looks back at it, illuminating the Tribal Tree from behind, and realizes that he has never felt so far from home in his life. He’s gone many places much further than the human house, but never without working wings. He frowns and turns to wriggle through the hole. His wing snags the screen and he nearly faints. It takes all his strength to pull it free and fall to the counter below. He lies there, panting, with tears streaming down his face. This, he decides, was the worst night of his entire life.  
  
It takes a good amount of time for Castiel to find the will to move. When he does, he stands shakily and has to place a hand on the wall to steady himself before walking to the edge of the counter. It’s a long way down to the floor, far too long for a broken wing. So, instead of finding the human, he opts for searching the counter for a good hiding place. He can make the human come to him. He barely manages to get around the sink- his dirty feet slip on the cold metal and he nearly falls in- and once he does, he has to avoid a large bottle of an amber liquid. He’s walking backwards, trying to figure out what the bottle might be, when he realizes that the surface under his feet feels different. He looks down and realizes that he is standing in the middle of a large piece of paper, on the chest of a gorgeously depicted faerie. He walks around it slowly, studying the drawing. The faerie seems to be reaching out his hand, and his wings are spread like he’s ready for flight. His eyes are a striking blue and Castiel briefly wonders how a human could possibly have made such a color. The faerie on the paper has black hair, tousled and messy with a bit of a windswept look. He wears an overlarge tunic, and the ties that hold it comfortably around his wings are just barely visible above his shoulders. The wings are incredibly detailed, they seem almost real. More than twice as long as the faerie’s height, the wings are black and speckled with white, grey, and dark brown. The feathers are clearly juvenile ones, intermingled with the fluffy down of fledglings. They’re incredibly familiar. Castiel frowns and kneels down, brushing a hand against the artwork that is at least three times actual faerie size. Slowly, it dawns on him why the wings are so captivating. They’re his wings.  
  
He jerks his hand back like he’s been burned, stumbling as he stands. This drawing is of him, as a fledgling, barely old enough for his juvenile plumage. Fear sinks deep into his bones. He feels sick. There’s no way a human should have been able to draw him in such accurate detail- he’d only been seen by them twice, for less than a minute each time. Something slams onto the floor behind him and his good wing flares up in response as his hand flies to the dagger in his belt. He turns around warily, terrified of what he might see. It’s the human who knocked him from the air, wearing an expression of disbelief. Clearly, the book that is now on the floor had been in the human’s hands just moments before. The human’s green eyes move from Castiel to the drawing behind him, and back to Castiel. It extends its hand with one finger held out, like it means to touch Castiel, who decides he’s having none of it, not today. This human has messed with his life far too much already, and Castiel has had enough. He wants to take care of this human once and for all.  
  
The soldier runs forward and leaps off the counter, pulling his dagger out of his belt and stabbing it into the humans thumb in one fluid motion as he lands. It’s incredibly dangerous, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s going to incapacitate this thing if it takes all day. He proceeds to stab the human as many times as he can before the human yells and shakes him off. Castiel doesn’t know how long he’s airborne, or what he hits, or where he lands. Not this time. This time, his world is black and silent.


	4. Remorse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I hope you're doing well! I'm going to apologize in advance because chapter updates might get held off for a while- I have a week until spring break and I should be traveling with my dad and sister. I'm not sure if I'll have my computer or not, so even though the story is going to be being written, I don't know if I'll be able to update between now and the end of break. But I'll do my best! Love you!!

Dean nearly breaks down for a second time when he grabs Mary’s books from his bedroom. He stumbles down to the kitchen and lays the books out on the table. First, he flips through the sketchbooks. The art work is so beautifully detailed, so carefully drawn that Dean can’t look at them for long. Just as he decides he’s had enough and he’s closing the sketchbook in his hands, a loose sheet of paper falls out. Dean frowns and bends over to pick it up off the floor. It’s sturdy drawing paper, and the fairy drawn on it is made from colored pencil and charcoal. It’s the same child that has haunted Dean’s dreams for seventeen years. At this time, Dean resolves that whiskey is long overdue. He places the picture on the counter, takes a long drink of whiskey, then sets the bottle on the counter beside the picture and picks up the stack of journals.  
  
He takes them to the couch, where he stays up reading for the rest of the night. When his stomach growls around dawn, he rubs a hand against his abdomen and finally looks up from the journal on his lap. His head is swimming with new information. Or perhaps lack of sleep and whiskey. He pushes himself up off the couch and walks into the kitchen, still reading his mother’s account of seeing fairies tend to the garden. Apparently, she had sprained her wrist a few days prior and the doctor had banned gardening until it healed. Just when she started worrying about the strawberries, she had looked out the window and saw the garden teeming with tiny glowing creatures. When Dean thinks he’s close enough to the fridge to look up and make sure he doesn’t smack into it, he looks up and promptly freezes in place. The journal slips from his hands and lands on the linoleum floor with a loud thud.  
  
The tiny man standing on the counter tenses up- one tiny wings raises in defense, but the other hangs motionless as the man turns around. Dean can’t remember if he’s breathing or not. His eyes flick between the tiny man and the drawing beneath his feet, which looks surprisingly similar. It must be the tousled black hair. And Dean can’t help himself; he starts reaching toward the tiny man. Because there’s no possible way he can be real. What Dean doesn’t see is the thorn the creature is holding. But the tiny thing leaps at Dean and begins poking his finger, and Dean _feels_ the thorn.  
  
“Ow! Jesus, what the fuck?”  
  
He shakes his hand violently and the winged man sails through the air. It hits the toaster and slides to the counter. Dean steps closer so he can get a better look. He doesn’t know if the thing is dead or alive. But before he can figure out what to do, the combination of alcohol, lack of sleep, and the shock of seeing something that may or may not be real all catches up with him. More unconscious than asleep, he slumps against the countertop and slowly falls to the floor.  
  
Hours later, he wakes to the sound of his name being called from another part of the house. He groans as he sits up, having to steady himself because his head is pounding and sitting up made him dizzy. He feels sick, his back hurts, and his neck is sore. That’ll teach him to pass out in the kitchen. He starts to reply, but his mouth tastes like cotton. He looks up as Missouri enters the room and assesses the situation. He can practically feel the moment she spots the creature on the counter- the air feels colder and her expression melts from frustration to concern.  
  
“Oh, Dean,” she says, voice practically a whisper, “what have you done?”  
  
She steps over him on her way to the counter. He stands just in time to see her scoop the tiny man into her hands as gently as possible. One of the wings hangs off her palm at an awkward angle. She adjusts it silently and looks at Dean with such sadness that he wants to morph into the wall and cease to exist. The psychic closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath.  
  
“Go to my car. Get the woven bag off the passenger seat and bring it upstairs to me.”  
  
She walks urgently through the house, not bothering to check if Dean has followed orders or not. Obviously, he does. He takes the stairs two at a time, clutching the bag to his chest. The only open door upstairs is the one into John and Mary’s room. He walks in to see Missouri digging through drawers on the nightstand. She makes a frustrated noise and moves into the bathroom. Dean hears her scuffling in there and turns his attention to the bed, which seems empty at first, but in actuality holds the tiny winged man.  
  
“Missouri, what are you doing? Is that thing even alive?”  
  
The woman walks out of the bathroom, using a very dusty candle to point at him. “You’d better hope so, young man, because if he isn’t, then you’ve dug your own grave. Now sit on the end of the bed and pick him up. Carefully! Don’t jostle his wings, and support his head.”  
  
She snaps her fingers at him and snatches the bag out of his arms. He sits dutifully and picks the creature up like it’s made of glass. It hardly weighs anything, and it looks very out of place resting on his scraped up palm. Missouri is laying items out on the nightstand. She lights the candle, grabs a bundle of leaves out of the bag, and lights it on fire. She starts waving it through the air in large, slow circle. Dean starts to ask why, but she cuts him off and starts directing him on how to sit, saying it’ll make sense in a few minutes, and he’ll be grateful. He’s confused, but he does what she says. She seems serious. The psychic mixes herbs in a bowl, drips hot was on them, and grinds them into a fine powder, which she then sets fire to. Dean watches as she snuffs the fire out, smudges the ashes onto her fingers, and walks over to him. She wipes the black dust on the tiny man’s arms, feet, and face as tenderly as she can with fingers that are larger than it is. Then she looks at Dean with a no-nonsense expression.  
  
“You might want to close your eyes and brace your muscles,” she says, and arranges the black wings differently on Dean’s hand. “It’s gonna be bright. If you peek before I tell you that you can, you ain’t gonna peek at anything ever again.”  
  
So Dean shuts his eyes. Missouri has a commanding presence already- having her threaten that he’ll go blind is more than enough incentive to trust her judgement. He hears her shuffle around for another few moments before she speaks in a language he doesn’t recognize. The ringing is so high-pitched that, at first, he doesn’t notice it. But the louder it gets, the harder he has to fight the urge to cover his ears. Just before he’s about to give in, there’s a flash of light that he can see even behind his eyelids. As suddenly as the light appeared, it disappears, along with the shrill ringing, and they are both replaced by a very solid, very warm body. The surprise nearly topples Dean off the bed, even though the body doesn’t weigh nearly as much as he can hold.  
  
“You can open your eyes, baby, but stay calm. Don’t drop him.”  
  
“Him?” Dean opens his eyes and immediately has to remind himself that he was told so stay calm. “Missouri… what the hell did you do?”  
  
“I used a spell of growing so that it would be easier to help him heal. I think his Grace has been blocked. You also need to speak with him, and this arrangement will be less stressful for the both of you than any other option would have been.”  
  
Dean doesn’t know how he’s mean to reply to that, especially considering the fact that he’s holding a man with wings. The wings are massive, much longer than the man is tall, and they’re the darkest black Dean has ever seen. He looks back to Missouri, not sure what to make of the situation. The psychic pays no attention to his perplexed expression. She runs her hand over the man’s left wing, the one that is not wrapped around Dean’s back, taking special caution not to actually touch the feathers. She sighs sadly.  
  
“That’s not good… It’s broken real bad. He won’t be allowed to move it for at least a week except for bandage changes, and that’ll be difficult…” She continues murmuring about the wing until Dean cuts in.  
  
“Missouri? This is kind of uncomfortable.”  
  
She looks at him like she’s just remembering that he’s in the room. “Oh! Of course. I’m sorry. Here, I’ll help you move him.”  
  
Together they manage to get the winged man laid in the center of the bed with as little jostling as possible. Dean wriggles away from the wing that had been resting against his back and notices that Missouri is right. The man’s left wing hangs off the bed and rests at an uncomfortable angle. The huge feathers are matted with dried mud. Dean knows the look of that mud all too well- it’s the dark, heavy mud that only comes from being made with blood. He frowns as he takes in the rest of the sight. His clothes are made from a very fine material, something very soft. They fit snug to his body, but not so tight that they inhibit movement. In fact, the off-white pants and dark blue shirt seem to be designed to provide maximum mobility. The man’s feet are dirty, but not nearly as caked in mud as his wings. The ashes that Missouri smudged on him make it difficult to see his features, but he doesn’t look very old. Underneath the ashes, an angry bruise starts at his ankle and runs up his left calf, disappearing under the hem of his pants and reappearing at his shoulder and down his arm.  
  
“What happened to him?”  
  
Missouri looks at him with slight surprise. “You don’t know?”  
  
“Should I?” Dean feels something akin to fear start nagging at him. The psychic looks heartbroken.  
  
“You did this. I know it wasn’t your intention and you couldn’t have known what you were doing, but this isn’t how you were meant to reunite.”  
  
Dean can practically hear his heart drop. Guilt, heavy and sickening, settles into his gut and digs claws into his chest. He doesn’t even know this man, this _creature_ , doesn’t even know what it is, but the thought that this much damage could have been caused by him… he wants to run and hide, but instead he sets his jaw and turns to Missouri. He will not become his father, who breaks a toy and leave it for someone else to find. He wants to make this right.  
  
“What can I do? He obviously needs help, tell me what I can do.”  
  
And for the first time all day, the woman smiles. “First we’ll need to wash him off as best we can. We don’t want to wake him up by causing pain, though, he needs to rest. You wouldn’t happen to have done any laundry yet, would you?”  
  
“No, ma’am.”  
  
“Mmm. Alright. I’ll get some towels from the hall closet and cleanse them for medicinal use- but don’t you start thinking magic is for doing laundry quick, this is an emergency and I won’t be doing you any magical favors after this. You get the water running in that bathroom so it’s hot and clear when I bring you the towels.”  
  
Dean nods, wondering briefly how magic can clean towels as he enters the bathroom and turns on both the sink and the tub. He stands in the doorway and watches the man sprawled on his parent’s bed. If anyone slapped him awake right now, he wouldn’t hesitate to pass this all off as a bad dream. The sight of blood-soaked feathers and nasty bruising keeps Dean sane. As much as it seems like it should be a hallucination, anything that gruesome has to be real. It has to be real, because the winged man is still barely breathing, and Dean still isn’t sure if the creature will survive. So he sighs and turns to check the water, which is now running clear, and he’s just starting to question what’s taking Missouri so long when she walks in to hand him a stack of large bowls.  
  
“Fill them with hot water. I’ll get the towels laid out on the bed.”  
  
Dean nods and fills two bowls, setting the others in the bathtub so they can be quickly switched when the first two bowls are dirty. He carries the steaming water to Missouri, walking slowly so he doesn’t spill any. Once he’s set the bowls down, she hands him a soft washcloth and points to a place on the wing that is especially coated in blood.  
  
“See here, where the bone has broken through his skin? We need to clean that first, that’s going to be the hardest and most painful for him. After it’s cleaned, we’re going to snap it back into place. That’s going to bleed some more. I need you to monitor the bleeding and keep the wound clean while I go get supplies for you two. Neither of you will be able to leave the house for a while. If you can, you should clean more of the feathers and start on his skin. Make sure he’s still breathing. Oh, and after we set the bones in his wing, you’ll need to ensure that he’s warm. Even unconscious, the pain could send him into shock and freeze him before he wakes.”  
  
The flood of instructions leaves Dean feeling dazed and a bit panicked. He’s still hungover, and she expects him to care for a creature he knows next to nothing about? Nonetheless, he nods. This thing is hurt because of him, and he’s going to set the record straight whether the winged man likes it or not. He dips his washcloth into the hot water, squeezes it out, and sets to work. With soft touches, it takes them almost an hour to wash the broken area. Missouri runs her hands over it again, humming to herself, then tells Dean where to hold and forces the wing back into place. The crack nauseates Dean, but he had his washcloth ready for the blood that gushes out almost immediately afterward. Missouri helps until the blood flow slows down a bit, then rinses her hands in the bathroom sink and brings Dean a bowl of fresh water.  
  
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Call me if you run into any problems.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am.”  
  
She smiles and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “You have a good soul, child.”  
  
After she leaves, Dean works diligently to clean the creature’s wing. He manages to stop the bleeding at the break and has just finished washing the largest feathers when he hears a soft sigh behind him. He turns his head, surprised, but the man hasn’t moved. So Dean shrugs and returns to his task. He rinses his washcloth and takes his third bowl of dirty water to the bathroom for a replacement. Once he fills it, he steps into the bedroom to resume washing the wing. But instead of seeing the man unconscious, he finds it sitting up on the bed. The creature turns its head and stares at Dean with the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. Then it leaps at him with a murderous screech.


	5. Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry it's been so long, but I hope you enjoy chapter five! Now that spring break is over, I've got some homework I'll need to take care of, so updates might be slow, but I'm ready to get this story rolling! Also, there's some Enochian in this chapter, so I'll put translations at the bottom.

Bodiless voices float through the emptiness to Castiel. He knows the language is familiar, but his head is spinning and he can’t understand what’s being said. A wash of pain comes from his wing. It’s almost gentle, or as gentle as great pain can be. It comes again, and again, until the feeling is a dull ache brushing against his feathers. He tries to turn his head to see if he can find the source of the voices, but his body feels stiff and heavy and he can’t move. He can’t even open his eyes. He tries to trash around and fight the blackness around him and discovers he can’t breathe. He struggles more and more against the emptiness and panic sets in. And then the lightning strikes.  
  
White-hot agony rips through his entire body and flashes light behind his eyes before rushing to a single bone in his wing. Castiel can feel everything. The beating of his heart, the lift of his chest with each soft breath, the coursing blood in his veins. There are hands on his wings and people moving about the room. Whatever he’s lying on is soft, but seems rougher than it should be. He is cold deep down to his bones now that the pain is concentrated in his wing, but the air touching his skin is warm. It’s strange. Once he feels calmer, he tries a deep breath again. This time, it works, and he becomes aware of a weight beside him, which shifts and then disappears. He hears footsteps. Feet! He attempts wiggling his toes. It works, so he opens his eyes.  
  
Castiel sits up slowly, stiffly. His entire body hurts. He turns his head to look at his wing. Most of the feathers have been cleaned, and the broken bone is no longer visible. The wings still hangs limp, though, and throbs dully each time his heart beats. His attention is drawn to the right by more of a strange feeling than a noise, and as he turns, he is unsure of what he might find.  
  
It’s the human man, standing in the entrance to another room and holding a steaming bowl. Its green eyes are wide in shock. Briefly, Castiel wonders how the human became the size of the fey. But the room is strange, the bed he’s been placed on is soft-but-not, and it dawns on him that he’s still in the human house. That, somehow, this human has managed to work the magicks and make Castiel larger. The surprise in Castiel’s eyes quickly turns to anger. This man, this _thing_ , needs to be stopped.  
  
Castiel shrieks and lunges at the human, intending to put it out of action. The human reacts quicker than it should, dropping the bowl and ducking out of Castiel’s path. His senses are still fuzzy with pain and shock, and Castiel doesn’t register the human’s movement fast enough. He crashes against the wall, but then uses the sturdy structure to push himself toward the human again. This time, he manages to make contact with the human. He immediately begins trying to reach its face- if it has no eyes, it will be unable to anticipate Castiel’s attacks.  
  
“Hey! Stop! Stop it! I don’t want to hurt you, damn it, stop!”  
  
“Md nazpsad g-chis-ge nidaliap!”  
  
Confusion crosses the human’s face. In its moment of weakness, Castiel forces it to the floor. It is struggling, and Castiel should have killed it by now, but his injuries have made him weak. The human blocks every swipe at its face, finally managing to catch Castiel’s wrists and hold his hands back. The green eyes are full of something that isn’t quite fear, but the human is still breathing unevenly. It has a strong grasp and is able to force Castiel’s hands away from its face, which angers the faerie further.  
  
“Olani gemeganza fisis lit md ooanoan,” he growls, beating his good wing to gain some downward force.  
  
The human’s expression changes to determination. It kicks Castiel in the back, throws him off, and rolls away. Castiel manages to come out of the tumble in a crouch and tries to raise his good wing in defense. The action is difficult because the corner of the human room he’s gotten trapped in is too small to provide enough space for his full wingspan. The human scrambles to its feet across the room. Instead of making an escape, it extends its hands like it means for Castiel to calm down.  
  
“Don’t do this. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m trying to help. I was cleaning your wing, you’ve got to let me finish.”  
  
“Olani nenni hoxmarch bagln ol.”  
  
Anger burns through Castiel’s entire body. He readies himself, then moves to make a flying leap at the human. Immediately, he is ripped from the air and slammed to the floor with a cry of pain. His broken wing has been caught somehow. He twists his torso to grab his wing and tug it free, but involuntarily yelps again when it doesn’t move. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the human moving forward and whips his head around to face it.  
  
“Nanaeel impais nosami ol ollog! Olani nanaeel impais vnig ol, o bagln ol od olani nidali mtif ol.”  
  
The human looks incredibly confused, but still approaches slowly. Castiel growls angrily and reaches for the dagger in his belt. His hand brushes against nothing and suddenly, he feels very afraid. Even the air seems like poison as it enters his lungs. The human notices the sudden change in Castiel’s demeanor, the panic in his eyes. It stops a few feet away and kneels down so it’s on the same level as the wounded faerie. When it speaks, its voice is quieter than before, and has a much softer tone.  
  
“You’re hurt and I want to help you. I need you to let me get your wing out so I can finish cleaning it.” Green eyes roam Castiel’s face, honest and concerned. “I don’t know if you can understand me or not, but I need you to stay calm. I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help. Okay?”  
  
Castiel squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the human touch him. The feeling of its hands on his feathers makes him shiver. Carefully, gently, the human works the end of his wing free, and as soon as he can move again, the human’s hands disappear and he hears it stand. He opens his eyes to find the human wiping its hands on its pants. Then it extends one, seemingly waiting for Castiel to take it. He’s not sure what to make of the situation, but he knows that as long as he’s defenseless, he’s in danger. So he stares at the human’s hand until it is pulled away.  
  
“Belga g-chis-ge ol nanaeel oi?”  
  
“Sorry, man, I don’t know what you’re trying to say. I only speak English. Know it?”  
  
As a matter of fact, he does, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to speak to this thing in its native tongue. He will not give in that easily. And yet, the human starts blubbering about Castiel being cold and he soon finds himself seated on the bed, wrapped in the green-eyed man’s strange checkered shirt while the human finishes washing his injured wing. Once all the feathers are clean, the man begins washing black ashes off Castiel’s skin. As the ashes begin to disappear, Castiel notices the bruise. It’s nasty- blue, black, purple, and stretching up the entire left side of his body. That explains his slowed reaction time and limited mobility, at least.  
  
The silence stretches between them for what seems like eternity. The human has just finished cleaning Castiel’s face with gentle touches when there is a noise elsewhere in the house and footsteps approach them, seemingly on a staircase. Castiel looks up to see an older human woman entering the room. It catches sight of him and beams, but then turns and speaks to the other human.  
  
“When did he wake up?”  
  
“I dunno. A little over an hour ago, maybe. Tried to kill me right away, too.”  
  
The woman laughs. “He must have been afraid. Has he spoken to you at all?”  
  
“Not sure. I think it was talking but I don’t know what it said.”  
  
“He, Dean. He isn’t an ‘it’, don’t call him one. Now, why don’t you go get some of the supplies I’ve brought you? They’re in my car, and some of the food needs to be kept cold. Oh, and there’s a frozen pizza you can cook up for your dinner, you should do that too.”  
  
“Yes ma’am,” the younger human says, and leaves the room. The woman shakes its head and turns to Castiel with an amused smile.  
  
“Ol olani nostoah oi ollor gemeganza impais nanaeel ollor lp obza oi nanaeel.” Castie’s eyes widen in shock, and the human chuckles. It comes to sit beside the faerie, continuing to speak in Castiel’s language. “That’s right, I know Enochian. Don’t be so surprised.”  
  
“How do you know the tongue of the fey?”  
  
“I’m a psychic, sugar, I know magicks. I’ve spoken with faeries from your tribe before, you know. Just not in a very long time. But nevermind that. How are you feeling?”  
  
Castiel studies the woman for a long time before he decides that it might be trustworthy. “Not well. I’m very cold. I am injured and I’ve lost my weapons. I have no way do defend myself against that thing.”  
  
The woman raises an eyebrow. “Why would you need to defend yourself? He hasn’t tried to hurt you.”  
  
“It _attacked_ me!”  
  
“Last night, yes, but that was a mistake. He didn’t know any better. But now he’s trying to make it right. You need to let go of your anger and remember who he is.”  
  
“I do not know this human. I have nothing to remember except that it nearly exposed my home and that it tried to kill me and it needs to be stopped!”  
  
“No!” The human woman stands suddenly, looking down at the faerie in frustration. “Both of you need to stop referring to each other as ‘it’ and ‘thing’. You know better than this, even if he does not. You know that humans and fey are hardly differed! Our physical forms are nearly the same, and neither of you can accept that fact! Stop fighting the truth. I did not come here to watch the two of you squabble and try to hurt each other. I am only here to help you learn to communicate, and you cannot do that when you refuse to treat each other like anything but creatures!”  
  
Castiel registers the sound of footsteps as soon as the woman stops yelling. The other human appears in the doorway, and it- no… he, Castiel reminds himself- approaches the woman cautiously before speaking in English.  
  
“Missouri? Are you alright? I heard shouting. I don’t understand the language, so I came here, and-”  
  
The woman composes herself with a deep breath and interrupts the man. “I’m fine, boy. I just let my emotions get the best of me. It won’t happen again.”  
  
The man looks at Castiel, who is sitting wide-eyed on the bed, looking a bit shell-shocked. “What about the- him. What about him?”  
  
“He’ll be alright,” the woman replies, “but I think you should introduce yourself. He understands English fine, he’s just being stubborn.”  
  
“Oh. Um. Okay.” The man seems at a loss for words as he stares at the faerie in front of him, which certainly hadn’t been the case when he was defending himself an hour previously. “I guess Missouri didn’t tell you, but I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.”  
  
Castiel doesn’t answer. He seems very unimpressed as he looks to the psychic, who apparently is called Missouri. She crosses her arms with a sigh.  
  
“Goho ol iadpil. Oiad gemeganza solpeth. Dlvagar iadpil md monasci.”  
  
The faerie squints at her, aggravated, but turns his gaze back to Dean. “Castiel.”  
  
Dean makes a face. “Cats to what?”  
  
“Castiel,” he growls, already annoyed with the clumsy human language. “You want my name. It is Castiel.”  
  
Missouri smiles, much calmer now that the two men seem to be cooperating. “Well, now that you’re both conscious, in the same room, and speaking the same language, I suppose I should tell you not to hurt each other. That would be extremely counter-productive. You are meant to work together. I don’t know why, not yet, but I know that you need each other. Now, I have other business to attend to.”  
  
“What?! Missouri! Hey, Missouri, wait!”  
  
But the psychic is already leaving the room, saying something about how she needs to get home, and ‘you boys work it out’, and she’ll ‘be back when the time is right’. And then she’s gone. Dean turns to Castiel, opening his mouth to speak, but is cut off by a distant beeping sound. He yelps out a ‘shit’ and runs from the room.  
  
Castiel sighs and stands slowly. He intends to follow Dean, but he’s not sure if he should- humans are odd. After a short internal debate, he decides to follow the human. Exiting the room, he finds himself standing at the top of a staircase. At the bottom there are two doors, which leaves turning left as the only option. Castiel descends, turns to the left, and realizes that he’s entered another room. This one is larger than the one he’s just come out of, and far less dusty. He spots a large archway across the room and through it he can see the kitchen, the window he entered the house through and the sink he nearly fell into. He walks over and as he steps into the yellow and brown themed room, he nearly runs into Dean, who stumbles backwards and almost drops the circular object he’s holding.  
  
“Holy shit. Cats… Castiel? Yeah, make some noise next time. It’s fucking creepy to turn around and see some dude with wings watching you.”  
  
The faeries doesn’t answer. He scans the room as though he’s checking for danger. Dean waits patiently until Castiel approaches the counter and picks up the picture of the winged child. Almost immediately, the human snatches the paper away.  
  
“Look, I’m supposed to take care of you or something, but that doesn’t mean you get to touch my mom’s stuff, ever. Besides, your wing still isn’t bandaged. At this rate, it’s gonna get infected.”  
  
Castiel narrows his eyes, watching as Dean gathers a pile of books from the table and carries them into the other room. He clenches his fists to keep them from shaking. This human, this pitiful creature, expects Castiel to allow it to help him, but also to follows its rules. This is ridiculous. Castiel turns away, not expecting to see the tribal tree through the window. It looks deserted. The sun has already begun to sink low in the sky, but no fey are flying. This isn’t normal. There should be so many families out right now, and they just… aren’t.  
  
“Castiel?”  
  
The voice startles him away from the thoughts that threaten to overtake him. Behind him, Dean is holding a roll of bandages and some medical supplies. He raises them sheepishly.  
  
“I can keep your wing from getting any more hurt, if you’ll let me. I just need you to put it in a comfortable position for healing.”  
  
Castiel doesn’t even try to move his muscles. He knows they’re still too weak to move his wing. So he shakes his head. Dean frowns.  
  
“Is… is that a can’t or a won’t?”  
  
He doesn’t answer. With a bit of difficulty, the human manages to convince him to sit in one of the chairs at the table. He unties the dark blue shirt and sets it aside, trying hard to ignore how dirty and blood-stained it is. The human threads a needle and carefully stitches the skin over the break back together. Then he applies some sort of ointment and wraps the wound. He splints the section of wing, bandages it more, then begins to gently push the wing back into its spot against Castiel’s back. The faerie’s low, gravelly voice surprises Dean as he reaches for thicker cloth to hold the wing in place.  
  
“Dean Winchester.”  
  
He waits, but no more words come. “That’s me. What’s up? Does this hurt? Should I move it?”  
  
“It is… no. Why are you doing this, Dean Winchester?”  
  
Dean shrugs and ties the cloth around Castiel’s bare chest. “Missouri said I’m the one who hit you last night, and that’s why you’re hurt. I want to help. Plus, she made you big and I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do about that.”  
  
The kitchen is quiet for a few more minutes. The room starts to darken as the sun falls beneath the horizon. Dean ties the makeshift sling in place and moves to wash his hands in the sink. As he’s drying his hands, he flips a switch and the room is flooded with light. Castiel’s head snaps up. This is a kind of magick he’s never seen before. Dean gives him a side-long glance, then cuts himself a piece of the circular object he’d been holding when Castiel had entered the kitchen. It is, apparently, food.  
  
“So… are you a fairy or something?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I dunno, man, I just thought… I guess I thought that’s all you could be. You have wings and you speak a weird language. Hell, you’re even supposed to be tiny. It’s just like the stories my mom used to tell me. But the bird wings kina make you look more like angels than fairies.”  
  
“You’ve… you’ve seen more of my kind?”  
  
“Well… no. Maybe?” Dean seems like he’s going to stop talking. Something in Castiel’s apprehensive expression must make him continue, albeit uncomfortably. “I thought it was a dream. And I was just a kid. But the night my-” he stops short and shakes his head. “No, it was nothing. That’s too deep, too fast. Way too fucking fast. Want some pizza?”  
  
Castiel makes a disgusted face at the slice of the circular object that he’s offered. But his stomach growls, and he realizes that it must be nearly two days since he’s eaten. He sighs.  
  
“No. Do you have nuts?”  
  
Dean nearly chokes on his food. Castiel holds back another exasperated sigh.  
  
“I suppose most humans wouldn’t eat fresh walnuts though, would they? But fruit is also out of season. Except apples, apples are good… do you have any apple slices?”  
  
Dean shrugs, coughing weakly. “I… Missouri bought some vegetables. They’re in the fridge. She probably bought fruit, too. But I don’t think… I don’t think there are any nuts.”  
  
Castiel stares at him blankly until he rolls his eyes and opens the large white contraption a few feet away. Inside, there are shelves and shelves of food. Dean gestures to it vaguely. Castiel stands and walks forward, extending his hand toward the… fridge. When he’s close to it, he jerks his hand back and looks to Dean with wide eyes.  
  
“It’s cold.”  
  
“Yeah. It’s a refrigerator. It keeps food fresh.”  
  
Castiel closes the contraption, then opens it again. The interior is still cold. He spots a bag of apples in one of the drawers and pulls one out. It looks smaller than it should. He starts to close the fridge when he sees strawberries, and nearly drops the apple.  
  
“How did you get strawberries in September?”  
  
Dean raises an eyebrow at him.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing, just… you’re kinda strange, Castiel. This is just normal human stuff.”  
  
“You are strange as well, Dean Winchester.”  
  
“Dean,” he mumbles around another piece of pizza, “it’s just Dean. You don’t have to say my full name every time.”  
  
“Oh.” Castiel closes the door of the refrigerator, holding an apple in one hand and a container of strawberries in the other. “Why not?”  
  
“Just… I dunno, Cas, that’s just the way it works.”  
  
The faerie frowns. “What is a ‘Cas’?”  
  
Dean’s face falls into disbelief. “It’s… it’s a nickname. For you. I mean, Castiel is really a mouthful to say. Haven’t you ever had a nickname?”  
  
“I suppose Gabriel refers to me as ‘Cassie’. I find it very undignified for a soldier.”  
  
“You’re a soldier?”  
  
Castiel blinks. “Yes. I would like my dagger back, by the way. You seem to have hidden it somewhere.”  
  
“Dagger…?” Slowly, confusion is replaced with amusement. “You can’t mean that thorn you poked my thumb with.”  
  
“It was not a thorn. My spear was a thorn. My dagger was a prickle from a rose bush, and I would like it back.”  
  
“I don’t know what happened to it. It’s too small.”  
  
“How am I meant to defend myself?”  
  
“Against what?”  
  
Castiel gives the human an appalled look. “Everything.”  
  
Dean lets out a low whistle. “Damn. I have a lot to teach you. You can’t keep walking around clueless about how humans do things.”  
  
The faerie squints at Dean, then straightens his back and squares his shoulders. “Tell me everything. Now.”  
  
“Now?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Dude, no. Now is time for food. And then sleep. I never got the chance to make my hangover go away, and these past few days have been really crazy, okay? Plus, you need rest to help your wing heal. So no. You can learn stuff I the morning.”  
  
“I have no bed, nor do I trust your home. I will not sleep here.”  
  
Dean groans and drags a hand across his face. This is going to be difficult. “It’s _not_ my home. It’s just a house. Go back to the room we were in earlier and sleep on that bed. I’ll stay down here on the couch. Nothing for you to worry about.”  
  
Castiel frowns, but eats his fruit nonetheless. Dean eats a bit more of his pizza before closing it in a clear bag and placing it in the refrigerator. He gestures toward the other room, so Castiel shuffles through the house and climbs the stairs to return to the room he woke up in. Despite how uncomfortable he is with the situation, he finds that he’s exhausted the moment he lays down. The fabric against his chest is unfamiliar, not nearly as soft as his lamb’s ear blanket back home. Sadness washes over him. He needs to find a way home. The longer he stays in this human world, the longer he’s in danger. The longer his tribe might be in danger. Slowly, sleep overtakes him to numb the pain.  
  
He dreams of fire, and of ice. The skies are peaceful until a storm strikes his wing mid-flight and he falls. Down, down, down, until the flames engulf him. They burn into darkness, and in the nothing, profound cold seeps into his bones. A figure rises above him, brandishing a sword. It laughs. The sound is guttural and terrifying. One of its many hands closes around his ankle. He screams and lunges towards it, fully intent on destroying the creature.  
  
“Cas! Castiel! Stop! Stop, it’s a dream, you’re fine! Stop trying to claw my face open, damnit!”  
  
Castiel’s vision clears. He’s breathing heavily, holding Dean to the floor between the bed and a wall. The human is shielding his face with his hands, looking more than a little terrified. He makes no other move to defend himself. Castiel scrambles backwards off the man’s chest, crawling until he feels the bed pressing against his back. He swallows the lump in his throat, trying desperately to calm the beating of his heart.  
  
“I… I apologize. I do not know what happened.”  
  
Dean sits up slowly, watching the faerie with wide eyes as he presses his own back against the wall. “It’s not your fault. I heard you yelling, so I came to make sure it wasn’t your wing, but you were still asleep. I guess I shouldn’t have tried to wake you up, cause you kinda went berserk.” He makes a move like he’s going to stand up. “I’ll go. You should try to sleep again.”  
  
“No!” The word leaves Castiel’s mouth before he can think. “No. Stay. Please. I’ve never been away from home before, and my brother is usually just on the other side of a wall. I…”  
  
He looks down at the floor, unable to continue. Dean bites his lip and slides back down to the floor.  
  
“You don’t know how to be alone.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Me either. My dad and brother aren’t even behind a wall. They’re just across the room in a different bed. I’ve been on my own for a while now, and… the nightmares don’t stop. Trust me.”  
  
The two men sit quietly in the dark room for several minutes, not quite wanting to acknowledge the moment that’s just passed between them. Finally, Castiel locks eyes with Dean through the darkness.  
  
“Stay with me.”  
  
“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, these are all rough translations, since Enochian is a finicky language. But they're translations!
> 
> Md nazpsad g-chis-ge nidaliap  
> Your words mean nothing
> 
> Olani gemeganza fisis lit md ooanoan  
> I will cut your eyes out
> 
> Olani nenni hoxmarch bagln ol  
> I am hurt because of you
> 
> Nanaeel impais nosami ol ollog! Olani nanaeel impais vnig ol, o bagln ol od olani nidali mtif ol  
> Do not come near me. I do not need you. This is your fault and I hate you
> 
> Belga g-chis-ge ol nanaeel oi  
> Why are you doing this
> 
> Ol olani nostoah oi ollor gemeganza impais nanaeel ollor lp obza oi nanaeel  
> Sometimes it seems like he'll do nothing on his own
> 
> Goho ol iadpil. Oiad gemeganza solpeth. Dlvagar iadpil md monasci  
> Speak to him. He will listen. Give him your name


End file.
